


Bright College Days

by FishEyenoMiko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Caretaking, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Violins, Virgin Sherlock, Virginity, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, non-sexual relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishEyenoMiko/pseuds/FishEyenoMiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>University AU:  John, Lestrade, and the Holmes brothers share a house during their first year at university.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright College Days

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from a Tom Lehrer song.  
> Written for [i_am_the_impala](http://i-am-the-impala.livejournal.com/)'s prompt on [asexy_sherlock](http://asexy-sherlock.livejournal.com/) asexuality in April prompt meme.  
>  _Uni!AU: asexual!Sherlock/hetero!John/hetero!Lestrade/asexual!Mycroft:_  
>  They get assigned together in a flat-like dorm room. (3rms, kitchen, living room, etc.) Somehow they all end up together. Bonus points if they end up all sleeping in the same bed permanently."

John Watson walked into the house and looked around. From the door he could see the kitchen and living room area, which was pretty much one large room with just a small island separating them.

Picking up his suitcase, John went down the house's hallway. At the end of the hall was a bathroom. On one side, he saw two bedrooms, complete with twin beds. The other side had one room that had desks in it, and a large room with two beds. Looking in it, he saw that it had its own en suite bathroom.

Looking around the large bedroom, John briefly, jokingly, entertained the idea of taking this room as his prize for arriving first. Chuckling, he went to the bedroom closer to the bathroom and set his suitcase on the bed. Along with the bed, there was a small dresser. Next to the bed was a nightstand with a lamp. The room was on the small side and not terribly fancy, but it was suitable.

Now that John had staked out a room, he went out to get the rest of his things from his car. He brought in a few boxes, then went into the kitchen to see what was there. As he was looking through the cupboards, the door opened.

"Woo-hoo!" said a female voice. 

John was surprised; he had signed up for a male-only house. But as he looked towards the door, he saw an older woman there, a suitcase in tow. Apparently one of his house-mates had been brought by his mother, or perhaps both parents. He wondered just how much he should rib the poor guy about it. At least he did until the young man entered; he was several inches taller than John, and looked quite fit. So, maybe he'd hold off on the "Mummy's boy" jokes.

"Oh, this is a nice place," said the woman as she looked around. She looked over at John. "You must be one of the house-mates."

"Yeah, hi," said John, heading over to the pair. "I'm John Watson," he said, holding out his hand.

"Hi, I'm Jennifer Lestrade, and this is Greg. His father-"

A man entered carrying a box.

"There you are! This is Frank."

"Hi," said John.

"Hi," said the man. "Where are the bedrooms?"

"Down there," said John, pointing down the hall. "I've taken the one at the end of the hall on the right, but there are two more."

"Thanks," said Mr. Lestrade, heading down the hall.

"So," said Greg. "What are you going for?"

"Medicine," said John.

"Oh, a doctor!" said Mrs. Lestrade.

"Good," said Mr. Lestrade, coming back into the living room, "You'll be studying a lot, and you and Greg won’t be getting up to anything."

"Of course not, Dad," said Greg with an impish grin.

"Greg..."

"Relax, Mum," said Greg. "I'll make sure to get all my work done."

"Hmmm," said Mrs. Lestrade. She walked over to kitchen, looking through the cupboards and in the fridge. "There's no food in here."

"I was thinking we could get take away tonight, then I'd go to the shop tomorrow," said John.

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Lestrade, "I'll go and get some real food, and you boys can stay and get settled in."

"Mum, we'll be fine," said Greg in a long-suffering tone.

"Greg, after your dad and I leave, you and your friends can do what you like, but just let me mother you one last time, okay?"

Greg sighed. "Fine."

Mrs. Lestrade gave his a quick kiss on the cheek, then headed for the door.

Suddenly the door flew open, and a tall, thin young man walked in, holding a suitcase. He looked around him, then rolled his eyes and headed down the hall.

"Well," said Greg, "He seems friendly."

John laughed. 

The door opened again and in walked a tall, somewhat portly young man.

"My brother?" he said succinctly.

"I think he went that way," said John, pointing down the hallway.

The man sighed. "You'll have to forgive him, he can be... difficult to deal with."

"You're here to help him move in?" asked Greg.

"Ah, no... I'll be staying. I'm a graduate student. Plus, our mother wasn't sure about him being out on his own."

"There's going to be four of you?"

"Relax, Mrs. Lestrade," said the older brother, "I've made accommodations."

"How-"

"Wait," said John, "You were the one who made sure there were two beds in the master bedroom?"

The brother smiled. "Indeed.

"By the way, I'm Mycroft Holmes, and the young man who's holed himself up in our room is my brother Sherlock. You'll have to forgive him, he's not terribly sociable."

Greg raised his eyebrows. "'Mycroft' and 'Sherlock'?"

Mycroft turned and gave Greg a withering look. John cleared his throat.

"I'm John Watson."

Mycroft nodded. "And you're Greg Lestrade," he said to their other house-mate.

"Oh, you've done your research," said Mr. Lestrade.

"If I'm going to be living with someone, I like to know about them in advance," Mycroft replied.

"Lovely..."

"Well," said Mrs. Lestrade, "You all still need to eat, so I should get off to the shop..."

Mycroft reached into his pocket and got his wallet out. 

"Here," he said holding his card out for Mrs. Lestrade, "This should do nicely. The PIN-"

"I assure you... Mycroft, was it? I'm quite capable of taking care of my family."

Mycroft was understandably taken aback by this. He and Greg's mother stared at each other for a few moments. Finally, Mycroft put his card back in his wallet.

"Quite right, Mrs. Lestrade." He gave her a thin smile.

Smiling back just as falsely, Mrs. Lestrade leaned over and gave Greg a kiss on the cheek, then left.

"Oh," said John, "I still have stuff to get out of my car."

"I'll come and help you," said Greg. John was about to object until he noticed the look on the young man's face.

"Okay, thanks."

They went out to John's car. As John opened it and they got a few boxes out, Greg sighed. 

"I thought I'd get some nice, normal blokes to room with," Greg said.

"Yeah," John agreed, "I know it takes all kinds, but do they have to live with _us_?"

Greg laughed.

"I guess we'll just have to make the best of it..."

"Yeah. 

"By the way," John added, "What are you studying?"

"Criminology, in the College of Law. I'm thinking I'd like to go into something in that field."

"Sounds like fun."

John started unpacking his things, putting his clothes in the wardrobe, making his bed, and getting his toiletries organized into a carrier to take to the bathroom. As far as he could tell, he'd only have to share the bathroom with Greg.

John had been facing away from the door gathering his things. He turned to head to the bathroom, and jumped when he saw someone in his doorway. It was the other Holmes brother. Sheldon? No, that wasn't right. Shirley? No that was _definitely_ wrong. The man was tall and pale and very thin, and he was staring at John with pale blue, almond-shaped eyes.

"Uh... hullo," said John. 

The young man looked around. Then he looked John up and down. 

"Do you want to become a doctor to raise your standard of living, or do you want to do it because it's something you really enjoy?"

John blinked in shock. "How do you know I want to be a doctor? And what do you mean 'raise my standard of living'?"

"Well, you're not exactly poor," the man said, "But your clothes are well-worn, especially your trousers--the hems are worn and frayed--and your shoes. You've even had to replace the laces... at least once. I can see the marks of the old laces."

John looked down; indeed the hems of his trousers were bad off. And looking carefully, he indeed saw where the marks of old laces were slightly off from those of the new ones.

"As for you wanting to be a doctor," said the boy after a pause, "Your books; medical journals, _Gray's Anatomy for Students_ and the like. They're older versions; I _thought_ they might be your father's--or mother's--handed down, but if one of them was a doctor you'd be better off financially, so you bought used to save money." He shrugged. "Simple enough."

"That... was amazing."

The young man seemed surprised "Really?"

"Yeah," said John. "You don't think so?"

"Well... no." He still seemed puzzled.

John furrowed his bow. "What's wrong?"

"That's... that's not what most people say."

"Oh. What do they say?"

The boy looked at the ground. " _Piss off_." 

John winced.

"I'm... sorry."

There was an awkward pause.

"By the way," said John, shifting his box of toiletries and holding his hand out. "I'm John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes," said the boy, hesitantly shaking John's hand. He moved out of the way. "You should take those things to the bathroom."

"Yeah," said John.

John started down the hall. Then he turned to see that Sherlock was following him.

"So, what are you studying?"

"Chemistry," Sherlock replied. "I considered criminology, but it's dull. I prefer more unique, elaborate crimes."

"Uh... studying it, I hope, not committing it?" John replied with a grin.

"Yes, of course."

John got the faint impression Sherlock didn't understand he'd been joking. He gave him a smile anyway. 

"You know, Greg's studying criminology; you might have some things to talk about..."

"Greg?"

John smiled. "Sorry... the other guy who lives with us."

"Oh. Hmm."

They'd arrived at the bathroom.

"Well," said John, "I need to put things away. And actually I need to take a piss, so... uh..."

"Yes, all right," said Sherlock. He gave John an odd smile; it seemed... fake. Then he turned and went into his room.

 

Mrs. Lestrade returned with a few bags on her arms.

"Oh, boys, could you come help me with the groceries?"

John closed his dresser drawer and headed into the kitchen. 

"Oh, good," said Mrs. Lestrade. "I'll go get the rest."

"Let me do that, dear," said Mr. Lestrade, heading towards the door.

John started putting things away; mostly stuff that went into the cupboards.

Mycroft sauntered in, and before he could say anything, Mrs. Lestrade handed him a jug of milk. He looked mildly affronted, but put it in the fridge nonetheless. The young man apparently realised he wouldn't get out of helping, so he started putting away the things that needed refrigerating. 

The door opened and Mr. Lestrade came on loaded down with bags. Greg rushed over.

"Here, dad, let me help you..."

"Sheesh, Jeni, do you think you got enough?"

"I didn't know what everyone liked," she replied defensively. 

Mr. Lestrade shook his head, chuckling.

"Isn’t there another guy in this house?"

"My brother," said Mycroft. "He's setting things up in our room."

"We're almost done here anyway, Mum," said Greg.

Mrs. Lestrade sighed.

They finished putting up all the groceries.

"Well..." said Mrs. Lestrade, looking around. "You know, maybe I should make you guys dinner-"

"Come on, Jeni, we really need to go," Mr. Lestrade replied. "I'm sure the boys will be fine."

"But..." she looked at Greg. "Oh, sweetie..." She looked on the verge of tears.

"Come on, let's go outside and say good bye. I'm sure that'll be less embarrassing for everyone."

The three of them left the house.

Mycroft pulled out a mobile phone. "So, what shall we order?"

John laughed. Then he realised Mycroft wasn't joking.

"But... they just bought us a bunch of food."

"So after driving here, unpacking, and putting away groceries, you still have the energy to make dinner for four?"

John sighed. "Ok, fair enough. Maybe we should wait for Greg, though. And what about your brother?"

"He'll eat anything," said Mycroft, sitting down.

John sat down as well. 

 

Greg came back in, letting out a sigh.

"Family, eh?"

John laughed. "Yeah..."

"I'm ordering dinner," said Mycroft. "Any preferences?"

"We decided we're too tired from moving in to cook," John explained

"Ah," replied Greg. "Fine with me."

 

Forty minutes later, dinner had arrived. John, Mycroft, and Greg figured out which food was whose, and sat at the small kitchen table to eat.

"What about Sherlock?" John asked.

"I'll make sure he eats later," said Mycroft said casually. It was clear he was used to Sherlock not eating at regular times.

John shrugged and continued eating.

 

Late that night, John had unpacked as much as he could, and was exhausted. He showered then got ready for bed. Before he retired to his room, though, he went to get a drink of water. As he headed to the kitchen, he saw Sherlock curled up on the couch.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Why are on the couch?"

Sherlock glared at him, then rolled over.

Sighing, John went to get his water.

 

After breakfast the next morning John did a little more moving in. Then he got his textbooks and went to the study room.

"Hey," said Greg, who was already studying.

"Hey," said John.

"Getting an early start, eh?"

"Yeah," said John, sitting down.

After a few minutes, the door opened and Sherlock entered. He stopped short when he noticed the two other boys.

"Hey," said John. "Join us."

The young man shifted uncomfortably. Then he went over and sat down, and began flipping through his text books.

John noted that instead of reading though the books like he and Greg were doing, Sherlock seemed to skim through the beginning then put them aside. Or rather, toss them aside, dropping them on the floor. John couldn't help but think there was hostility to it, as if the books were somehow offending Sherlock.

"Do you mind?" said Greg peevishly the third time it happened.

"Could you please just be a little quieter?" John added.

Sherlock made an annoyed noise. Nevertheless, when he finished with the next book, he just pushed it to the far corner of his desk instead of dropping it.

"Thank you," said John.

 

Mycroft entered the study room. He was holding a manila folder.

"Gentlemen," he said, "Let's go into the living room. We need to talk about our living arrangements."

The three of them got up, but as soon as they left the room Sherlock headed towards his bedroom.

"You, too, Sherlock. You're part of this household."

Sherlock stopped, standing for a few second. Finally, taking a breath, he turned around and followed them into the living room.

Mycroft stood in front of the other three boys.

"All right, this is how it's going to go-"

Greg leaned forward. "And you're deciding this because...?"

"Because I'm the oldest, and I have the schedule typed up." He opened the folder and held up a sheet.

"Wow..."

"Like I said, I like to be prepared," Mycroft said. "Now... most of the cleaning will just be us cleaning up after ourselves, getting our own meals, doing our own laundry, and the like. But I think we should eat together at least once a day, and the three of us-"he indicated himself, Greg, and John-"will cook that meal. I've also got a schedule of who'll do the food shopping."

"What about Sherlock?" John asked.

"He'll do the dusting and hoovering."

Sherlock looked annoyed but didn't argue.

"Now I know some of us have late classes, so I think breakfast is out; same with lunch, so I think dinner would be the best option."

"Sounds good," said Greg.

Sherlock gave him a look. "Really?" 

"We're going to live together for at least a year, we should get to know each other. Eating together sounds like a good idea."

Sherlock shook his head.

"That's settled then," said Mycroft. "Anything else that comes up, we'll address as it comes. Any questions?"

No one spoke up with a question.

"All right, then. Meeting adjourned."

 

The next day, classes started. Between classes and doing his share of the work at the house, John was soon very busy. The first week or so was the worst; he hadn’t had this much to do at home, and it took him a little while to get used to the workload. He finally managed to get a handle on things the second week; balancing classes, housework , and managing to have a little fun, as well. 

The second weekend after classes started, John decided to go out. After dinner, he got online and looked for potential hang out spots. Finding a bar on the bus route near their house, John headed out.

 

John came home from the bar good and wasted. He'd spent more time drinking than having luck with women, which had made him drink even more. He plopped down on one the chairs in the living room. Looking over, he saw Sherlock on the couch.

"Can't you sleep in your room?"

"Go to bed, John, you're drunk."

"Yeah, well, tomorrow I'll be sober and you'll still be... yeah, I'm goin' to bed..."

 

The next Friday, John had settled into bed when a familiar noise reached his ears. Sherlock was playing his violin. At midnight.

John got out of bed and went into the living room. Sherlock was in front of his music stand, playing wildly. He was swaying erratically, and he was sweating.

"Sherlock?"

"Busy!" came the reply. Sherlock didn't even stop playing.

"Sherlock... are you... okay?"

"I'M. BUSY."

To John, he looked less "busy" and more "high as a kite".

"Sherlock, it's the middle of the night."

Sherlock finally lowered his violin.

"So? It's Friday. None of us have to be up early." He turned towards the hall were the bedrooms were. "And you seem to be the only one bothered."

"I guess so..." John tried to figure out the best way to broach the subject. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, why?"

"You're up in the middle of the night, you're sweaty and twitchy-"

"Is there a point to this, John?

"Are you on something?"

Sherlock looked away. "I hardly think that's any of your business."

"It is when you wake me up in the middle of the night," said John with a smirk.

Sherlock looked at him, rolling his eyes. "Fine, I'll be quiet, just leave me alone."

Sighing John headed back towards the hall. He turned to give Sherlock one last look and saw him sitting on the couch. He was shaking; he seemed restless and nervous.

Walking back over, John sat next to Sherlock.

"I thought you were going to bed."

"Eh..."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"I'm not your babysitter, I..." John sighed. "You took something, and I... want to make sure you'll be okay."

"I'll be fine," said Sherlock angrily. "It's not like this is the first time I've-" he stopped, shutting his mouth.

John wasn't sure how to feel about that. But he knew that criticizing and judging Sherlock wouldn't help. He remained silent, letting Sherlock gather his thoughts.

"I'm... fine."

"Okay." 

John looked at the other man, noticing that he seemed even thinner than ever.

"I'm going to get something to eat. You want something?"

"No, I'm not hungry."

John sighed.

"Please?"

"Why?"

"I don't like to eat alone."

"What are you having?"

"Beans on toast."

Sherlock's face fell a bit. John winced, afraid he'd lost him.

"I prefer eggs with my toast," Sherlock said.

"I could make you some eggs."

"All right," said Sherlock. He put his violin away and walked over to sit at the kitchen table.

 

The next day, John was reading his pharmacology textbook when Sherlock entered the study. He closed the door behind him.

"Sherlock...?"

"You didn't tell my brother about last night."

"Umm... no. Why would I?"

Sherlock looked honestly surprised.

"Look, I know you brother's here to look after you but..." John shrugged. "You're an adult. And while I don't approve of you using drugs, I really don't feel like it's my business to tell Mycroft what you get up to."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Well. Good. Thank you."

 

It was a few weeks before John found himself having a weekend where he felt he had time to go out again. He went to a different bar than he had last time, hoping for better luck. 

Around midnight, John found himself dancing with attractive dark-haired woman named Jeanette.

"So," she said during the second song, "you havin' fun?"

"Yeah." John decided to take a chance. "I'd have more fun if we were alone together."

Jeanette smiled. "Sounds good." 

"Excellent," said John. "But I have flatmates..."

"I don't," Jeanette said with a meaningful smile.

 

John entered the house to see Greg and Mycroft eating breakfast.

"There's some toast and bacon left," said Greg.

"I had some breakfast already, thanks."

John went to his room. He noticed right off that his bed was unmade. He was certain he'd made it the day before. After a moment's thought, he went to the study room. Sherlock was there, going through his chemistry notes.

"Sherlock, were you in my room last night?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, not bothering to look up.

"Why?"

"I slept in your bed."

"You slept..." John ran his hand down his face. "Why did you sleep in my bed?"

Sherlock finally looked at him. 

"You weren't using it." 

Sherlock's voice was calm and matter-of-fact. It was clear to John that Sherlock had no idea he had done anything wrong.

Taking a breath, John said, "Sherlock, you can't sleep in other people's beds without permission."

After a pause, Sherlock nodded. "Okay."

John nodded.

"Are you going to be out all night a lot?"

"I dunno," John replied. "If I do, it'll just be on the weekends, and maybe Thursdays. Do you want to use my bed when I do?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay."

 

The week went by quickly; studying and eating and sleeping and classes. It was rote and boring, and John was glad when the weekend finally arrived. Friday, he headed to his favourite bar and starting scoping out possible prospects. Jeanette wasn't there, so John danced with a few other young women, but by midnight, nothing was panning out. After another half hour, he decided to call it a night

It was nearly 1 AM when John got back to the house. He was quiet as he came in, walking through the dark to his room. He opened the door and slipped in. He was about to turn on the light when he noticed that his bed was occupied. Sighing, John took out his keys and used the little torch on them to get his pyjamas out. He showered, then went back his room.

"Shove over, Sherlock," he said softly as he lifted the covers to get into bed.

"Hhmm...? John? You went out."

"I came back," John replied. "There's room for both of us; just scoot over a bit." 

Sherlock grumbled but slid over.

"Thanks," said John, getting into bed.

No sooner did John settle into his bed then he realised how bizarre the situation was. Here he was, a straight man, lying in bed with another man. As he thought of that, he wondered what Sherlock's orientation might be. Given that Sherlock was dead to the world, he supposed it didn’t really matter right now. Relaxing, John gave in to his exhaustion.

 

John woke up feeling strangely warm. He snuggled against the warmth. Then he realised that what he was feeling was Sherlock, still in his bed.

Sitting up, John stretched. He got out of bed. He couldn't help but chuckle as Sherlock immediately moved over, taking up nearly the whole bed.

"I'm making myself some breakfast. Want some?"

Sherlock just mumbled and curled up.

"Okay," said John. "Maybe later." 

 

John was finishing making breakfast when Greg came into the kitchen. As he got some cereal out, he gave John a significant grin.

"What?"

"You and Sherlock. You make a nice couple."

"Couple...?"

"Oh, don't play dumb," Greg teased. "I saw him coming out of your room this morning."

"Oh! Oh, no, we just slept to--no, not..." John sighed as he slid his fried eggs onto his plate. "He uses my bed when I'm out, but I came home and... so..."

Greg looked at him. "Uh... okay, that's kinda weird."

"Yeah, saying it out loud, I guess it is..."

 

John was in the study room typing a paper on his laptop when Mycroft came in.

"John," he said, giving him a penetrating look, "What are your intentions towards my brother?"

"My...? Is this about him sleeping in my room? Look, he just sort of... started doing it. And as long as I'm out, I really don't mind."

"But you came home last night. And you still slept in your bed, with him."

"Yeah." John shrugged. "It was late, and I was too tired to argue over it, or make up the couch."

"And Sherlock didn't object?"

"No. He scooted over and went back to sleep."

A surprised look passed over Mycroft's face, but he quickly recovered.

"I want to very clear, John: If my brother continues this, and you don't object, that's fine. But if you attempt to take advantage of him..."

"No, of course not," said John. "I mean, I'm not gay, but even if I were, I'd never do that, to anyone."

Mycroft looked John up and down. Then he nodded and left.

 

"John?"

Turning, John saw Sherlock standing in the doorway of the study room.

"Yeah?"

"I need to you make me some food." 

"Okay," said John. "I could use some lunch, myself."

Saving his work, John set his laptop down and headed to the kitchen. 

"Anything you want in particular?" he asked.

Sherlock just shook his head.

"Okay. How about a sandwich?"

"Actually, I like the... fried egg in a piece of toast."

"Eggs in toast?" John smiled. "Yeah, I can do that. Would you like some bacon, too? Maybe some milk or juice?"

"Milk. No bacon."

"Okay."

 

Sherlock and John sat eating; Sherlock with his eggs in toast, and John just having toast and jam with some milk.

"My brother talked to you," Sherlock said about half-way though his lunch. "Was it about me?"

"Yeah," said John. "He, uh... he wanted to know if I was going to take advantage of you."

Sherlock looked puzzled. "But we don't have the same classes."

"Same classes...? Oh! No, he meant... er... sexually."

Sherlock looked mildly horrified. He looked away, staring at the floor. "I wish he'd stay out of my business."

"That _is_ why he's here."

"Well, it's not as if I _want_ him here!"

Sherlock angrily stabbed at his toast. 

"Besides, it's ridiculous. You're obviously straight, I don't know why he'd even think such things."

"I dunno," John replied.

Sherlock was nearly done with his meal when he said, "This is good."

John smiled. "You're welcome."

 

Later that day, John came into his room to see Sherlock sitting at his laptop.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?"

"There are errors in your pharmacology paper. I was correcting for you."

John took the laptop out of Sherlock's hands. 

"Sherlock, you can't just mess with people's property without asking."

"I... was trying to help you."

John sighed. "And I appreciate that. But you have to ask first."

Sherlock nodded. "All right. Do you still want me to correct you paper?"

"That'd be nice, thanks."

 

That evening, as John lay in bed, something occurred to him. Getting up, he went into the living room. As he'd seen on many nights, Sherlock was curled up on the couch.

"Sherlock," said John softly.

"Hmm...?"

"You can come in and... and sleep with me if you like."

Sherlock just shook his head and rolled over.

"Okay. Good night."

 

"No! Forget it!" Sherlock tore out of the room he (occasionally) shared with his brother, heading to the living room.

John buried his face in his textbook, but it was difficult not to overhear.

"You're being childish, Sherlock!"

"Why, because I don't want to go to a wedding? Oh, come on, you barely know Uncle Sherrinford yourself."

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh. "So consider it a chance to see Mummy."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft in a firm tone, "Go pack." 

"I don't see why you care so much, anyway."

"Because Mummy wants you there."

There was a knock on the door. Both brothers turned to glare at it as if it had personally offended them.

"I'll get it," said John. Hopping up, he walked over and opened the door.

Standing at the door was a tall, pale, dark-haired woman.

"Hello," she said with a smile, "Are my sons here?"

"Uh...." John stepped back and turned.

"Mummy!" Mycroft walked up and kissed his mother on the cheek.

"Hello, Mycroft," she said. She turned to her younger son.

"Hello, Sherlock," she said. Walking up, she kissed him on cheek.

"Mother," Sherlock said. 

"I had some spare time, so I thought I'd come to fetch you two. Are you packed and ready?"

"I am," said Mycroft, looking at Sherlock significantly.

"Ah," said Mrs. Holmes, smiling at Sherlock. "Well, let me help you, all right, dear?"

"Yes, all right," said Sherlock, sounding less than thrilled.

 

Saturday night, John and Greg were in the study room. John heard the front door open. A moment later, Sherlock passed the study.

"Hey," said Greg. "How was-"

Sherlock just glared, then continued on by.

"Not good then," Greg said.

John sighed. He was done with his reading and only had a little bit left of his paper due on Tuesday. Gathering his stuff, he went to his room and got out his night clothes.

 

After his shower, John returned to his room. He was a little surprised to find Sherlock looking though his papers.

"Do you mind?" John walked over, closing the notebook Sherlock had been thumbing through.

"Biochemistry... it should be easy."

"It's not too bad, no."

"I mean for _me_ ," Sherlock replied angrily.

"Okay... look, I don't-"

"And you, you should be simplicity itself..."

John was puzzled. "Simplic-?"

"To read! I should be able to... to tell what you've been studying--aside from the biochemistry--if you're been writing or typing or... or..." 

The more he talked, the more Sherlock seemed to be working himself in to state of... panic, perhaps?

"All right, all right, Sherlock, just..."

Sherlock swayed a bit, putting his hand on John's dresser to steady himself. With that, the pieces fell into place for John.

"What did you take?"

Sherlock just gave a dismissive laugh and looked away.

Turning, John saw that his door was still open. He closed it.

"Look, Sherlock, remember what I said, after the incident with the co--violin? I won't tell your brother. I won’t tell anyone."

Sherlock shrugged. "I took a diazepam. And now..." he looked towards the door. "I can’t... focus. It's..." he gritted his teeth. "Hateful..."

"It's a sedative. They sometimes have the effect. I take it it's a new prescription?"

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Oh, God..."

"It's no big deal... I just pinched a few from my mother's medicine cabinet. She won't even miss them."

Sherlock walked over, sitting on John's bed. 

Suddenly, Sherlock shuddered, leaning over, gripping the duvet tightly.

"What wrong?" asked John, walking over. "Are you in pain?"

Sherlock shook his head.

Sitting down, John reached out. Sherlock jerked his arm away, sliding out of John's reach. 

"Just... don't..."

"Okay," said John. "But... I want to help you, if I can. Tell me what’s going on."

"I..." Sherlock shook his head again. 

Suddenly, Sherlock let out a gasping sob. Covering his mouth with both hands, he began crying.

"Sherlock!" John slid closer, but Sherlock immediately tensed up.

"Okay, okay," said John softly, scooting back. "I won’t touch you. Do you want to talk?"

"No," Sherlock managed.

As he watched Sherlock's shaking frame, John suddenly realised this was a very private moment.

"Do you want me to leave?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Okay."

John sat for a moment, just watching his friend. He felt a bit helpless. But perhaps just being there for Sherlock might be enough.

"John..."

Sherlock had turned towards him. His eyes were red and his face was blotchy.

"Yes?"

"Could you... do... something...?"

"Sure, what is it?"

"I don't know," he said, "You're the... the sensitive one..."

"Oh... yes, all right." 

John thought of a few things. He wasn't sure talking would work; Sherlock had already said he didn't want to talk. Hugging seemed... too intimate. 

"Do you want me to rub your back?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay."

Moving closer, John rested his hand on Sherlock's back. Then he slowly rubbed Sherlock's back, making small circles, working from his lower back to his neck. He had barely started when Sherlock squirmed away. John was about to ask him what was wrong when Sherlock began pulling his shirt off. He was dressed for bed, in an old t-shirt and pyjama pants. He had taken his shirt part-way off, but between being tired and irritable, he only got the shirt halfway up his arms when he got stuck.

John had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He stood up.

"Want me to help you?"

"Yes," came Sherlock's muffled reply.

"Okay."

John carefully pulled Sherlock's shirt off the rest of the way. He folded the shirt a bit, setting it on the bed as he sat back down.

"Still want me to rub your back?"

Sherlock nodded.

Starting again, John again worked in small circles, across Sherlock's back, and up towards his neck. He kept his hands well above Sherlock's waist, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. Sherlock had already stopped crying, and now he was relaxing, slumping forward a little bit.

"Let me go get you a flannel to wash your face," said John.

"Okay."

John slipped out of room, closing the door behind him. He went to the bathroom and got a flannel out of the cupboard. He ran it under hot water, then squeezed out the excess.

John went back to his room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock was still sitting on John's bed, having put his shirt back on.

Sitting next to his friend, John handed him the warm flannel.

"Here you go."

Sherlock pressed the flannel over his eyes for a few moments, then wiped the rest of his face. He pressed the flannel against his face.

"The wedding..." Sherlock said, his words muffled by the cloth.

"What's that?"

Sherlock lowered the flannel. "The wedding... the whole bloody thing was..."

"Bad?"

Sherlock let out a laugh.

"That's one way to put it."

There was a pause. John noticed he still seemed tense.

"Sherlock... did something in particular happen?"

Sherlock looked away. He cleared his throat.

"Look, what I said before... _anything_ you say stays between us. I swear."

Sherlock took a breath.

"There was... a girl, Irene. Our age; she was a member of the bride's family, and..." his fingers shook a bit. He clasped his hands together. "She kept making these... faces at me. I didn't think much of it... but then, after the wedding, during the reception..." Sherlock got up. He walked over to his window, resting his head against the pane. "I don't... like being in large groups of people for very long, so I went to an anteroom. Irene came in... I didn't think anything about it until..." Sherlock let out a slow, shaky breath. "She sat next to me... she talked a little; I mostly ignored it, it was just... stupid stuff. Then she pulled her chair closer. She put her hand... on my thigh. It was... uncomfortable. Then she... she kissed me. It was..." Sherlock let out a shudder. "I hated it. There were three boys and another girl there, and they were laughing and..." Sherlock shuddered again. "I... I went back into the ballroom... it was preferable to... _that_."

"You're... upset that a girl hit on you?"

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh. "Of course you don't understand..."

"So explain it to me," said John.

"I'm not... interested."

"Oh! You're gay."

Sherlock shook his head. "Idiot."

"Well if not that, what? I want to understand, Sherlock, but you need to explain, not just lash out."

Sherlock walked back over. He sat on the bed again.

"I'm not _interested_. At all."

"With... anyone?"

"Exactly."

An incredulous smirk grew across John's face and he said "So... what, you're asexual? Like a slug?" 

"A slug?!" Sherlock jumped his feet. "Oh, God, you... you ignorant, immature..." Sherlock looked away. "I should have known better. I thought you were my friend; I thought maybe you would understand, or at least _try_ to be understanding! But you're... you're no better than those... those stupid twats at the wedding, laughing at whole thing because apparently it's _funny_ when a woman assaults a man!"

John had gotten to his feet. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, "Sherlock, I... you're right, I'm ignorant, I... I've never met anyone who wasn't interested in sex, and... I was stupid. I'm sorry."

There was a pause.

"Slugs aren’t asexual."

"Pardon?"

Sherlock turned to John, "Slugs aren’t asexual, they're hermaphroditic." 

"Oh... oops..." John blushed sheepishly. Then he smiled; he rather liked when Sherlock showed off his intelligence. Something else struck him about what Sherlock had said.

"I _am_ your friend, Sherlock, and I promise not to be such an idiot in the future."

Sherlock sat down. "Yes you will, John. Nearly everyone is."

John laughed.

"Feeling a little better?"

"A little."

Handing the flannel back, Sherlock lay down on John's bed.

John smiled. "Get some sleep."

John took the flannel back to the bathroom. He came back to his bedroom and began to get out a sheet to sleep on the couch.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked. "You're not sleeping here?"

"I thought you'd want to sleep alone."

"No," said Sherlock rather fervently. He seemed shocked by his outburst. Turning toward the wall, he continued, much more softly, "Please stay."

John smiled. "Of course."

Putting the sheet back, John turned off the overhead light. Then he went over to the bed. Sherlock slid back, giving John room. Laying down, John smiled at his bed mate.

"Feeling better?"

Sherlock nodded. "Tired."

"Good night, Sherlock."

"Hmm..." Sherlock closed his eyes.

Turning, John switched off the lamp on his night stand, then settled into bed and went to sleep.

 

The next morning, John woke to an odd feeling. Rolling forward, he felt a pulling at the back of his shirt. Turning, he saw that Sherlock was still asleep and his hand was clutching the back of John's shirt. With a soft chuckle, John turned back over. It was Sunday, so he was really in no hurry to get up.

 

John was working on his homework when Mycroft came into the study room.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Come here," he said, heading into the living room. John followed him.

Mycroft sat on their couch, and indicated to John to sit down, as well.

"As you know, John, I'm here, in large part, to look after Sherlock. However, he and I have a... difficult relationship."

John resisted the urge to laugh.

"I've noticed he seems to get along with you. Since he's rejected my attempts to look after him..."

"What? You want _me_ to look after him? In case you haven’t noticed, I'm here to get an education, not be a babysitter."

"I'm not asking you to babysit, just watch for a few things. Make sure he eats and sleeps, and..." Mycroft sighed. "I know he sometimes uses... various substances to deal with his problems. I can’t always prevent him from doing so, but you're the one he seems to turn to when it goes badly."

John sighed. "I suppose that wouldn't be so bad."

Mycroft nodded. "I know he took some medication from our mother's house. Do you know if he's taken any?"

John shook his head. "I can't tell you that."

Mycroft seemed surprised. "Why not?"

"I promised him I wouldn't." John sat up, looking Mycroft in the eye. "And that's how it's going to have to be, I'm afraid. If I'm going to taking care of him, he needs to know he can trust me; that if he tells me something that's clearly private, I'm not going to tell anyone, even you. Hell, in some cases, _especially_ you."

Mycroft gave John a studied look. Then he nodded. "I suppose that's only fair."

With that, Mycroft got his feet. "Well, that's all. You should get back to your studies." 

 

John was getting ready for bed when his door opened and Sherlock entered.

"Hey, Sherlock."

"I'd like to sleep with you."

"Okay."

Nodding, Sherlock walked over and climbed into John's bed. Smiling, John got in after him.

After a few moments, Sherlock spoke.

"Did my brother ask you about the pills?"

John nodded. "He knows you took them--I mean, took them from your mum's house. But I don't know if he knows you took one... you know what I mean..."

"Did you tell him?"

"Of course not," John replied. "Sherlock, I told you that nothing you shared with me would leave this room. Did you think I was lying?"

There was a pause.

John sighed. "I meant it, Sherlock. I still do."

"You'd keep secrets from my brother?"

"If you want me to. And if it's not dangerous. Granted, taking someone else's medication isn't the safest thing to do, but..." John shrugged. "Still, if it's just... you're upset about something, or something happened you want to talk to me about, and don't want your brother to know, that's fine."

"Okay. I won’t tell anyone about the things you tell me, either."

John smiled. "Thanks. I'm not sure who you'd tell, but it's a nice thought."

Sherlock smiled back. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

 

John woke up in the middle of the night to find that Sherlock had snuggled up to him. His head was resting on John's chest, and he was holding John's shirt as he had the night before. This meant John's arm was smushed between their bodies; it was actually starting to go numb. He slowly moved his arm out from between them. Holding it out with no real place to put it, he finally, carefully, rested it on Sherlock's waist. Sherlock moved a bit, but didn't wake up. Smiling, John relaxed and fell back to sleep.

 

The next two weeks went by pretty much the same as the previous ones. The only real difference was that every night, Sherlock would join John in bed. They rarely just went right to sleep, usually talking over the events of the day, or planning the next before they finally settled down.

 

Near the end of October, John was asked to come home to celebrate Harry's birthday. Sherlock sat on John's bed as he packed.

"This weekend is going to be odd."

"Oh?"

"It's just going to be Greg and me," said Sherlock. "Mycroft's going to be going to some conference in Edinburgh." 

"Oh. Well, you'll be fine. Just remember to eat, all right? And try not to bother Greg too much."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John just smiled.

"Can I use your bed?"

"Of course." 

"I... hope you have a good weekend."

"You, too, Sherlock."

 

John arrived back at the house midmorning on Sunday. He foraged for some lunch and sat at the table to enjoy it. 

Half-way through John's lunch, Sherlock entered the living room.

"John, you're back!"

"Hey, Sherlock," said John. "How was your weekend?"

"Peaceful."

John laughed. "Good."

"I'm glad you're back," said Sherlock

"Thanks. Me, too."

 

Things went back to normal quickly; John and Sherlock shared a bed, John made sure Sherlock ate, and Sherlock helped John his studies.

About a week later, John was in bed when, at about midnight, he noticed Sherlock hadn’t come to bed yet. Figuring Sherlock might be up dealing with his demons, John got out of bed to see if he could help. He went out into the living room, only to find it empty. Now he was puzzled.

Going to the end of the hall, he knocked softly on the door to Mycroft and Sherlock's room

"Come in," came Mycroft's voice 

John opened the door and looked in. Mycroft was sitting on his bed working on his laptop. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Is Sherlock in the bathroom?"

"No," said Mycroft. "Where have you looked?"

"My room and the living room."

"Have you tried Greg's room?"

"Greg's... you think he'd be in Greg's room?"

"Have you looked?"

"No. I guess I will."

John closed the door and went to Greg's room. He knocked. When he got no answer, he debated for a moment before opening the door anyway. To his surprise, Sherlock was in bed with Greg, both of them fast asleep.

Despite being confused by this discovery, John closed the door, leaving the two to sleep in peace.

Knocking on Mycroft's door again, he poked his head in.

"He's in Greg's room."

"Well, then, mystery solved," said Mycroft with a smile.

"Yeah, I suppose... Good night."

"Good night, John."

 

The next day, John made lunch for Sherlock and himself. John waited until they were almost done before he spoke up.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Is there a reason you slept with Greg last night?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, "I should probably tell you what happened while you were home."

"Okay."

"Friday night, Greg got quite drunk. I was trying to ignore him, but he was being terribly noisy. So I tried to get him into his bed, hoping that would settle him down. In the process of that, I... sort of got tangled up with him. And, really, given his state, I felt it was probably best to stay with him, anyway.

"Well, perhaps because I'm used to sleeping with you, I found it quite pleasant. So Saturday, I asked Greg if I could sleep with him again. He was a bit hesitant, but finally agreed.

"When we slept together Saturday night--when Greg was sober--I discovered that Greg tends to fall right to sleep, and is a very sound sleeper."

Sherlock took a drink of his milk, then continued. "Last night I was very tired, and I had an early class. I slept with Greg because, as much as I enjoy talking to you, I didn't want to be up talking half the night."

"Ah," said John. "You could have told me; I would have let you sleep."

Sherlock shrugged. "But I _like_ talking to you."

"So... if you want to talk, you'll sleep with me, if you need to get right to sleep, you'll sleep with Greg?"

"Yes. I doubt that will happen much, but yes."

"Okay," said John. "Next time, please tell me first. I was worried when you didn’t come to bed."

"Oh. That hadn't occurred to me. Yes, I'll tell you from now on."

"Thanks."

 

On the first of December, John made dinner for the housemates. Near the end of the meal, Mycroft pushed away from the table.

"I have something important to discuss with you."

"Okay."

"Our mother is going to France for Christmas. She's invited us to come with her, but it would mean staying with our relatives in Bordeaux. And, frankly, I find dealing with our relatives nearly as exasperating as Sherlock does."

Greg and John snickered.

"I'm also aware that you're not close to your family, John."

John glared at the older boy. Mycroft ignored him.

"And so I was thinking that perhaps the three of us--or the four, if you would like to come, Greg--could go on a trip on our own."

"The four of us... on a trip together?" said Greg. "This will end well."

"It will hardly be any different than us living together," Mycroft pointed out.

Greg shrugged. "Let me talk to my parents. You remember how clingy my mum was; she might want me home for Christmas."

"Fair enough," said Mycroft. "What about you, John?"

"Well, I should talk to my folks, too; but I'll probably be able to come."

"Do you want to come?" said Sherlock.

"Yeah," said John, smiling at Sherlock. The other boy smiled back.

"Marvelous."

 

Mycroft found a resort in Inverness that had cabins to rent. He got one with two rooms for the week of Christmas.

The boys woke up early the day of the trip. They had decided to take two cars so they would have adequate transportation for their stay. It also meant John and Greg didn't have to hear the Holmes brothers arguing all the way there (or on the way back, for that matter).

The trip to Inverness was long, and despite leaving early, it was dark when they arrived. They parked in front of the office and got out to found out about their cabin. It was clear but cold, and snow crunched under their feet as they headed inside.

Mycroft walked up to the desk. The concierge walked up.

"Hello, may I help you?"

"You have a reservation for Mycroft Holmes."

The concierge looked on the computer.

"Oh... excuse me, I need to get the manager. It'll only be a moment."

The manager came out, looking rather contrite.

"Mr. Holmes. I'm Cecil Forrester. We... have a bit of a problem."

Mycroft looked understandably annoyed. "Problem?"

"You see," said Mr. Forrester hesitantly, "The cabin you reserved had a little problem with the fireplace, and it's going to be uninhabitable for a few days."

"What?" said Greg.

"Oh, God," John muttered. 

"I'm assuming there are other cabins available?"

"Well, yes, but there's a problem." Mr. Forrester looked at the group. "The only cabins left are single-bedroom."

Mycroft shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"I'm sorry, sir, but-"

"One bed or two?"

"Just one."

"Show us."

"Sir, I--"

"Unless you want us to take our business elsewhere."

"Of course."

The five of them trudged the show to one of the cabins. After taking off their coats in the entryway, then entered the sitting room. It had a fire place and flat panel tv, and a nice couch and a chair. There was also a small kitchen with a table with two chairs.

Forrester then led them to the bedroom, which had an en suite bathroom. John was stunned; in the middle of the room was the biggest bed he'd ever seen.

"OOOoh," said Greg.

Mycroft turned to the manager. "We'll take it."

"We could bring in-"

"It's fine," said Mycroft.

"Yes, all right. Of course, you'll only be charged for a single."

"I would say so," Mycroft replied coldly. He turned to his housemates. "I'll go back to the office and get this settled. You drive the cars over here and start unpacking."

"Okay," said John.

 

John brought his and Sherlock's luggage into the cabin, while Greg brought in his and Mycroft's. John was surprised to find Sherlock in the bedroom, lighting the fire.

"Hey," said John. "Need any help?"

"No, I can manage."

"All right."

 

Mycroft entered the entryway. A porter was with him, carrying an extra duvet and two extra pillows. 

"Go put those in the bedroom; we'll arrange them ourselves."

"Yes sir."

After discarding his outerwear, Mycroft entered the cabin proper. 

"Has everything been brought in?"

"Yep," said Greg.

"Did Sherlock help?"

"He lit the fireplace in the bedroom," said John.

"Ah, good."

"Did you get everything settled?" John asked.

"I did," Mycroft replied. "And speaking of that..." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a stack of pound notes. He gave John two twenties and a ten, and handed the same out to Greg and Sherlock. "Compensation for the inconvenience." 

"Oh, great!" said Greg. He took his cash and took out his wallet to put it in.

"Yeah, cool," said John. "Thanks."

Sherlock accepted his money quietly, slipping it into his jacket.

"Well, I don't know about the rest of you," said Greg, "but I'm knackered. I'm gonna get ready for bed."

"Uh," said John, "are we really all just going to... well... sleep on the same bed?"

"Why not?" said Mycroft. "We've practically all slept together, anyway."

"You guys figure it out," muttered Greg, disappearing into the bedroom. By now, the porter had come and gone.

"I get the shower next," said Sherlock, also going into the bedroom.

Mycroft looked at John. John shrugged. "I'll go last."

 

John was reading on the couch when Sherlock came out into the living room.

"It's your turn to take a shower."

"Thanks," said John.

John went into the bedroom to find that the guys had set the bed up rather differently than it was probably intended. While one side of the bed had two pillows at the head of the bed, the other side had two pillows on the foot of the bed. The two duvets were next to the other, separating the two sections of the bed.

"Oh, I see, we'll sleep head-to-foot... sort of."

"Yeah," said Greg, "You're going to sleep next to me."

"Okay," said John.

 

After his shower, John came out into the bedroom. Sherlock was sitting on the bed reading. Greg and Mycroft were lying with their heads at the foot of the bed. Greg was resting against Mycroft, who had his arm wrapped loosely around him.

Sherlock got up and John got into bed. Setting his book on the nightstand, Sherlock got in after him. 

John was used to having Sherlock sleeping with him, but having someone on either side of him was odd. Then something even odder occurred to him: He could actually feel the arm Mycroft had wrapped around Greg's chest. He let out a laugh.

"What's so amusing?" Mycroft asked.

"I'm a straight man, in bed with three other men."

"You think that's odd?" said Mycroft. "I'm an asexual man in bed with three other men, one of whom is my little brother."

Greg laughed. "I think he's got you beat, mate."

John laughed. "Fair enough."

"Just relax and go to sleep, John," said Sherlock.

"Okay, okay..."

After shifting around a bit, John got comfortable. Sherlock waited until he was still, then snuggled against him. He rested his hand on John's side, his fingers subconsciously gripping John's nightshirt. John rubbed Sherlock's arm, then slid his hand around, resting it on his back.

Normally he would talk to Sherlock; or Sherlock might start a quiet, sometimes personal, conversation. But with two other people in the room, and so close to them, neither of them spoke; they simply fell asleep in each other's arms.

 

"Time to get up," said Mycroft in an imperious voice.

"Ugh..."

"It's not that early," Mycroft replied. "And I don't know about you, but I'd rather like to take advantage of the complimentary breakfast."

Sherlock smirked. "You could stand to skip a breakfast or two..."

Mycroft glared at his younger brother.

"C'mon, Sherlock," John said, "Just this once, come eat with the rest of us."

Sherlock groaned, but sat up. "Fine."

 

After breakfast, John went shopping and got some food and supplies for the week. He was amused at how, even on vacation, he was the designated food shopper for the "house".

Despite that, Inverness was a lot of fun. John did a little shopping--both Christmas and general--and enjoyed the snow. It was also nice not to have to worry about schoolwork for a while, and just enjoy being idle if he wanted to be. 

 

After breakfast Christmas Eve, John was sitting by the fire reading when Mycroft walked up and sat in the chair near him. John could tell by his expression that Mycroft wanted to talk to him.

"Yes?"

"You know about the Christmas party in the ball room tonight?"

"Yep."

"There will be a few low-level government officials I want to meet. I'd like Sherlock to be there, as well."

"You want me to talk him into coming."

"Yes," Mycroft replied. "However, it would be best if he thought it was entirely your idea."

"I can try, but I find it hard to lie to him. I mean, I can _do_ it but he usually figures it out."

"Will you try?"

John smiled. "Yeah, sure."

 

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table working with a chemistry set. John sat down and waited until Sherlock took notice of him. It was a good five minutes before Sherlock looked at him.

"John?"

"Hey, Sherlock. So, you know there's a Christmas party tonight-"

"Oh, God, you want me to come with you, don't you?"

John laughed. "Yes."

There was a pause. 

"Yes, all right."

"Oh... great!" said John, who was a little surprised at how quickly Sherlock agreed.

 

That evening, John got dressed in a nice red dress shirt and black trousers, fixing his hair and making sure his shoes were shiny. 

John was surprised when Sherlock came out of the bathroom in a stunning jade shirt and stylish black trousers. He always looked good, but right then and there, he looked amazing. John smiled.

 

John, Sherlock, Greg, and Mycroft walked over to the ball room. 

"Sherlock," said Mycroft as they entered, "There are people I'd like you to meet."

"Yes, I had a feeling this was your idea."

"Yet you still came," Mycroft pointed out. 

"I came because John asked me to," Sherlock explained. " _However_ , I will play along with you if I get to leave when I want to."

"Give me half an hour to properly show you off, then you're free to go."

Sherlock thought this over for a moment.

"Fine, let's go," said Sherlock, flashing his best fake smile.

 

John ended up pretty much alone at the party. Greg followed Mycroft around--John wondered what was going on between those two--and Sherlock played the nice younger brother. John decided to take advantage of the free food.

Seeing couples out on the ball room floor dancing made John wonder if he was bold enough to ask a woman he didn't know to dance. Or... perhaps even Sherlock. That thought stunned John, and he was ready to dismiss the idea until he saw Sherlock out on the floor with a woman. Sherlock managed to make eye contact with him, and he looked... desperate.

Making his way across the dance floor, John approached the couple.

"Excuse me..."

Both Sherlock and his dance partner looked at John.

"If you don't mind," said John, "I'd like to dance with my boyfriend." He moved close, planting a kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

"Your...?" the woman sighed. "Of course..."

Stepping back, she let John take over.

"Thank you," said Sherlock. There was a pause, during which John could see that Sherlock seemed stressed-out. "John, I need to get out of here."

"Okay," said John. "Let's go tell Mycroft, so he'll know what's happened to us."

"Fine."

John quickly maneuvered them toward the edge of the dance floor. Then they walked over to Mycroft. He was alone standing near the buffet.

"Hey, Mycroft... Sherlock and I are going back to the cabin."

"All right. Good night." 

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and headed towards the door.

"'Night, Mycroft," said John.

"Goodnight, John. Do keep an eye on him, will you? You know what sort of things he gets up to when he's upset."

"Yeah, I'll keep an eye out."

 

They had only walked a few feet away from the ball room when Sherlock stopped in his tracks. He looked around.

"Sherlock?"

"It's dark out here. And quiet."

"Yeah," said John, smiling. "It's also colder than a witch's tit... can we go inside? You can have the bedroom; I'll read in the living room and leave you alone."

Sherlock nodded. 

 

They were on the lawn of their cabin when Sherlock stopped again. It was snowing lightly; snowflakes landed on Sherlock's dark hair. John couldn’t help but smile at the image.

Sherlock looked at him, tilting his head curiously. After a moment, he reached down, scooping up a bit of snow in his gloved hand.

"We didn’t have much snow where I'd lived," Sherlock mused, shifting the snow back and forth in his hands.

"Awwww... I'm sorry."

Sherlock shrugged. Then, to John's shock, Sherlock tossed a well-formed snowball right at his chest.

"Ah! Sherlock!"

"Oh... that went better than I expected."

"You sneaky bastard," John said, reaching down to scoop up some snow.

"Oh... oh, dear..." Sherlock began to do the same.

Soon they were engaged in an enthusiastic snowball fight. They were careful to aim at each other's chest, back, or legs; between John's good throwing arm and Sherlock's good vision, they rarely missed. 

Finally, after a well-aimed snow ball hit him in the legs, John collapsed on the ground, laughing.

"Okay, uncle, uncle!"

"What..?"

"I give! I surrender!"

"Oh!" Sherlock smiled. "I win."

John smiled back. "Yeah, you do..."

John lay back in the snow. Then, with a chuckle, he began making a snow angel.

"What the hell are you doing?"

John stood up, being careful not to mess up his art.

"Snow angel," he said, pointing.

"That's..."

"Fun, Sherlock. It's fun."

Sherlock considered this for a moment. Then he carefully lay down in the snow next to John's snow angels.

"I just wave my arms and legs?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock rather awkwardly flapped his arms and legs for a few seconds, then carefully got up.

"I... suppose it looks a bit like classic depictions of angels."

"Heh... yeah."

"Well, let's get inside, okay?" 

"Good idea."

They went in and took their snow boots and coats off.

"I don't know about you," said John, "but since I'm not planning on going out again, I'm going shower and just read."

"Same here. You can go first."

 

John was reading in the living room when Sherlock came in, wearing his night clothes.

"John, you can come read in the bedroom."

"Are you sure? I thought you might want to be alone to de-stress."

"I'm actually feeling better. And..." he looked down at the floor, his voice becoming quiet. "You... actually help me feel better."

"Oh! Well... okay, sure, I'll come join you."

 

John lit the fire in the bedroom, then sat on the bed, propping a pillow against the headboard to lean on. Sherlock lay down next to him. After a few moments, he draped an arm across John's legs. John looked down at him with a smile, then went back to his book.

 

After about an hour, John finally put his book aside, sliding down so he was laying next to Sherlock. To his surprise, Sherlock was still awake.

"Hey," John said with a smile.

"Hello."

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Sherlock spoke up. "John... am I really your boyfriend?"

"No, I just said that so that girl would leave you alone."

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean, 'Am I sure?'"

"You've not slept with a woman since October 12th. Even your non-sexual dates with women have been sparse lately, and you're often home before 10 pm.

"On the other hand you've been spending a lot of time with me; we've gone out to do things together; a lot of people might argue those were dates. And you were upset when you saw me dancing with that woman tonight."

"I was upset because I could see you weren't happy dancing with her."

"It was more than that. I think you were jealous."

"Sherlock-"

"John, I realise this is... complicated. I admit, I'm having trouble with it myself."

"Oh?"

"I've never really... liked anyone as much as I like you. I find most people tedious and stupid, but you're... not. I enjoy talking to you and doing things with you. As you've noted, I even share... very personal things with you. It's nice to be able to know I can tell you things and you'll keep it to yourself. Even more importantly, it's nice to know I can tell you things, and I know you won't reject me..."

Near the end of this, Sherlock had begun to look thoughtful. As he finished, he sat up, looking away and clearing his throat. John said nothing, letting him collect himself.

Sherlock laid down flat on his back. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned to John. 

"I'm sorry; I shouldn't have gotten into this. It's... sentimental and stupid."

"No, Sherlock, it's not," said John. "Because you're right; it's complicated. Our relationship is... I don't even know what to call it." 

"'Boyfriends'?"

John laughed. "I... don't even know. Maybe."

Sherlock nodded.

"I still don't want to have sex with you, though."

"That's fine," said John with a smile. "You're a tulip."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Tulips reproduce asexually." John shrugged. "I like tulips."

"Ahh."

John smiled. 

 

They heard the sound of the door opening a moment later, Greg staggered into the bedroom. 

"Hey, you guys," he slurred drunkenly.

"Am I going to have to wrestle you into bed again?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not... completely drunk," said Greg, even as he leaned against the wall for support. "Just had a little too much champagne..."

"Do you need help showering?"

"Nah... but you might wanna come rescue me if I'm not out in twenty minutes."

Sherlock sighed and got out of bed. "I'll help you. I don't think my brother would appreciate coming back here to find his boyfriend dead in the bathtub..."

 

Sherlock helped the now clean and pyjama-clad Greg out of the bathroom. He seemed more sober now, so Sherlock let go of him and climbed onto the huge bed, crawling over next to John.

Greg came over and plopped face first on the bed. After a moment, he scooted over, snuggling against Sherlock's back. It was then they John realised he was sleeping with his head at the top of the bed, instead of the head-to-foot position they'd been sleeping in.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied when John's eyes widened. "He's gotten comfortable. If you want me to turn him around..."

"No, it's fine."

"All right." 

 

Mycroft came back to the cabin about half an hour later. John and Sherlock had been talking--when Greg was asleep, he was dead to the world--but changed to less personal topics as Mycroft joined them in bed.

"Well... this is cozy." 

"I kind of like it," said John.

"It's a bit... snug," Sherlock observed.

"Is that good or bad?" John asked.

"I'm still deciding."

John smiled. "Fair enough."

"I'm thinking about getting something like this for home."

"A bed for all of us?"

"It would go in the master bedroom, of course," Mycroft continued. "And you and Greg could keep the beds you have now."

"We'd only have three beds," John pointed out.

"Have we _ever_ actually used all four beds?"

"Okay, good point."

Mycroft smiled.

"Well it's not like we have to decide right now anyway," Mycroft said, lying down and putting a hand on Greg's shoulder.

Laying down, John looked at Sherlock, then over at the other men in bed with him. Yeah, it was an unconventional situation, but then, so was nearly everything about his life these days. Smiling, he snuggled close to Sherlock and went to sleep.


End file.
